


Flower Buds

by Control_Room



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Crushes, Crying, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt No Comfort, In a way, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Poetic, Self-Hatred, Unrequited Love, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: There are everywhere on his skin.





	Flower Buds

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](https://halfusek.tumblr.com/post/182461955334/i-actually-fucking-love-flower-aesthetic-things) post on tumblr

He finds there are buds all over his skin.

 

They come in every color, golden, red, green, ginger, snowy blue, brown, lime, indigo, magenta, yellow, deep dark blue swirled with pink, so many colors, so many buds, gracing every speck of available skin without taking over his entire body.

 

He can hardly see his dark brown skin beneath it all on his arms. He cannot cut his nearly black blue hair anymore, the tresses enswarmed by various shades and petals.

 

He did not pay much attention to them, finding that they could blossom merely by just gazing towards a passing stranger doing a beautiful thing.

 

People are beautiful when they do beautiful things.

 

Their beauty sticks with them if they do enough beautiful things.

 

He saw the beauty in everyone.

 

Flowers blossomed, but the buds never opened on his skin, he often too nervous to approach his interest or restraining himself from doing so.

 

They were everywhere.

 

Most of the time he is not much bothered by them. 

 

But sometimes…

 

He smiled and closed himself off, informing him of his lack of interest. It was fine. He understood that he was not looking for someone like him.

 

Sometimes…

 

An incredulous laugh and an airy dismissal, almost joking in tone. That one cut much deeper than it should have, some of the buds withering silently as he smiled in pain.

 

Sometimes…

 

A cautious look over followed by a soft rejection, a confession of unavailability. He nodded and hoped one day to understand.

 

Sometimes…

 

A gentle smile, a hand on his arm, and a quiet disclosure of something he suspected but never confirmed, removing a thought of a ‘them’ instantaneously. He knew what it was like, so he did not speak, only nodded.

 

Sometimes…

 

He laughed in his face, flaunting a ring. It stung as he stuttered apologies and bit back hurt words, holding himself back. He thanked him for his time.

 

Sometimes…

 

It was a simple rejection, at least. A no. End of discussion. No painful or snide (or comforting) words. Cut and dry.

 

Sometimes…

 

A stare was what he got, followed by a quick decline. Followed by muffled laughs and silenced remarks. Followed by his fluster and exiting.

 

Sometimes…

 

The man was calm and suave as he brushed it off, a simple and short forgo, continued by the offer of a drink he was not entirely certain of its contents. He was tempted. Very tempted to let it all go.

 

Sometimes…

 

Alarm, flatter, and a hint of pity crossed his face when he told him. He gave him the rose. The other man did not speak, bit his lip, and gently, perhaps more gentle than he had ever been, returned it, and quietly told him the feelings were not returned with the flower. He smiled and nodded, bid him farewell, and cried that night. He had hoped so badly.

 

Sometimes…

 

So much disdain, so much spite, so much scorn, so much arrogance, that was how he met his simple request, his little, “I love you”.

 

He listed why he would never, ever, not even as a joke, even think of joining him, think of attempting a relationship, think of trying something between them. Not for him, and not for himself. Not even just for his body.

 

No.

 

Henry made sure he knew he was too:

 

Young.

 

Foolish.

 

Stupid.

 

Insane.

 

Pathetic.

 

Weak.

 

Broken.

 

Ugly.

 

Satanic.

 

Grotesque.

 

Unpleasing.

 

Askew.

 

Hideous.

 

Monstrous.

 

Idiotic.

 

Dreaming.

 

Lost.

 

Ruined.

 

Used.

 

Forgettable.

 

Worthless.

 

Useable.

 

Dim.

 

Sick.

 

Demented.

 

Disgusting.

 

Brazen.

 

Deletable.

 

So unnecessary, so horrid.

 

A literal demon.

 

He maintained his composure.

 

He tried, at least.

 

He was crying halfway through the other’s tirade, apologizing incessantly, shivering and shuddering and falling to his knees in silent remorse, agreeing mutely with every word.

 

Henry spat at him, making sure that the pin on the other’s chest was touched.

 

He turned and walked away with a sneer.

 

Sometimes…

 

He stood in front of the mirror.

 

Staring at the man looking back at him.

 

A man covered from head to toe in baby flowers.

 

He took off his clothes, looking over his body.

 

Buds everywhere, on his hands, his chest, his legs, his neck, his hair, his back, every inch with the small closed nibs. 

 

Some were shriveled, and some seemed to be on the verge of opening, but most of them were just buds, nothing more, nothing less.

 

He blinked.

 

Maroon, almost red, eyes blinked back behind pink lenses.

 

He ran his hands through his long, nearly foot long hair, his long, slender, scarred fingers slipping through vines and dark, deep blue.

 

He closed his eyes for a long time, imagining the buds to burst open and bloom and show the world, show everyone, show no one, that he was loved.

 

He swayed and hugged himself.

 

He carefully opened his eyes. 

 

Nothing, of course not.

 

No matter how many times he did this, they would never open.

 

Unless…

 

Sometimes…

 

He put his hand to his own on the glass, sucking in a breath.

 

“I love me.”

 

Unless…

 

He waited.

 

Sometimes…

 

And waited.

 

Unless…

 

His shoulders slumped in defeat and he laughed.

 

Sometimes…

 

It was a hollow, broken, sobbing laugh, no happiness even secretly tucked away in it.

 

Unless…

 

He had hoped to believe it.

 

Sometimes…

 

He had hoped that he could lie to himself.

 

Unless…

 

He hoped he would believe his own falsehood.

 

Sometimes…

 

He cried, long and hard and garbled with gibberish and sobs.

 

Unless…

 

He wanted to believe it.

 

Sometimes.

 

It hurt.

 

It hurt.

 

It hurt so badly.

 

He could not believe the lie he told himself.

 

Nothing could love something like him, he accepted.

 

Nothing at all.

 

He hated himself.

 

Every word that Henry said was true.

 

He hated himself with every molecule and every bit.

 

He could not tap into the self love some found to console or please themselves with.

 

And it was because he could not believe the lie.

 

Johan Ramirez was covered in flower buds.

 

They never, ever, did bloom.

 

Not once.

 

Never.


End file.
